The Beginning of the End
by redheadphilia
Summary: "Let them remember me. Remember me and my curly-headed brother, the runners. Remember the rebellion. The beginning of the end." T for language and violence, and minor adult situations.


**[I do not own any of the characters in this, or _The Hunger Games_. They all belong to Suzanne Collins.]  
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* * *

_ Run. That's all I've got to do. All I _can _do. Run._

I can hear Roman's footsteps behind me, the thick sound of his hoarse breathing. My sides are killing me. I want to stop, but I can't. Tree limbs whip me in the face and thorns carve into my body. Plant words. Plant words are the trees' language. The flowers speak it, too. Sometimes, the wind picks up on the dialect and whispers it into the cattails and the lilies. The roses. The thorns do not welcome me. I see little animals scattering from my feet as I run. My feet are columns of burning, acidic fire. My shoes were worn through the soles long ago, and Roman told me that they'd only trip me up, so I've taken them off and thrown them out, running barefoot. My face is wet, but there's no clouds in the sky, and then it's running down my face. Salty tears that burn my dry skin.

I want to die. No. I want to run home to Mom. I miss her, even if my hair always got tangled in her huge earrings, or her orange lipstick always left marks on my face. Even if she wished to alter me the way everyone else altered themselves. I'd never been interested in that. But my skin is cracked. My lungs are shattered. Every breath is agony. I don't try to catch myself when I trip on a root and fall. Why should I? I've only slowed Roman down. He'd be long gone if it weren't for his little sister holding him back. If he were to keep running, they'd have me, and he'd get away. Just like we always talked about, tucked away in our room, five and seven again. We always whispered about freedom. About proving everybody wrong. I smile as I hit the ground and rocks dig into my skin. He'll get away. He'll have his dream.

Only… He doesn't run. He stops, and tries to scoop me up. I don't like this. "Let me go! Leave me to die!" I shout, slamming my palms into his chest. But he doesn't let me go. He runs with me for a few paces, then sets me on my feet.

"Lavinia, come on!" He yells, pulling me by my wrist. The copter is close now. No one ever believed we were siblings. I'm all arms and elbows, no chest, no butt. Everyone always said that those things could be easily fixed, but I liked my figure the way it was. He's muscular and tan. I'm skinny and white. Ghostly. My red hair clashes with most colors, while his soft, curly, dark brown hair is welcoming and gives his a sweet, childish air. My eyes and his are the same startling green, but where I look like a holiday, he looks handsome. He was always good with words, and I stutter and pout. I do have one thing that he doesn't, though; my lips are full and a nice pink, while he has a pale pout.

I follow after a moment, crying harder now. I want to die. I don't want to go home now. I want to breathe my last. He holds back for a moment to let me in front of him. Roman, always being the gentleman. He would've been a fine husband. At sixteen, he's a little young, but he would've been. I'm fourteen, though I often was told that I looked younger. I'm still deciding whether that's a good thing or not.

The copter is hot on our trail now. It has come close enough to the ground that leaves and my hair are dancing in the wind. I wonder what my locks look like now. Fire? Good. Remember the flame-haired girl and her own spark of rebellion. Who turned us in? Mother, or someone else. Let them remember me. Remember me and my curly-headed brother, the runners. Remember the rebellion. The beginning of the end. I turn my head to the left for a moment, to toss my hair over my shoulder, and my eyes catch silver. No, gray. Gray eyes. Two pairs, but I'm looking at the one at my height. A girl, with dark brown hair braided down her back. She's about my height, and pretty. I'm so caught up with them as I run by that I don't realize what's happening. A shriek. I twist around as a net is thrown over me. I struggle at first, beg for help from the girl and boy, but freeze. I stare. My handsome brother, a spear through his stomach, hunched on the ground. Lifeless. "Roman!" I scream, fighting the net, but it's no good. Tears are spilling out of my eyes, rolling down my cheeks and dripping into the thirsty ground. I stop fighting as they scoop me up. He's pulled into the coptor first. I lift my head silently, ready to accept my fate. But I have a witness. Two. Even if no one at the Capitol except those whose lives I touched remembered me, those two will. They'll remember the redheaded girl. The spark that set fire to the Capitol in the end. I will have my revenge. I settle it with that gray-eyed girl and that fierce anger on her face. She wasn't wearing it then, but the lines in her face tell me she wears it often. I lay off my job to her, now. I was the spark. Let her be the flames. I've done my role, now it's time for her to do hers.


End file.
